Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a Mismatch
The aluminum bat bounced twice against the marble foyer tiles, the metallic ring vibrating through the luxury suite before rolling to a stop against the mahogany baseboard.
Gregory stumbled backward, his hands flying instinctively to his face. Blood spurted instantly between his fingers, staining his pristine white dress shirt a violent, spreading crimson. His eyes, wide with shock and blinding pain, stared at Ashlynn as if she had suddenly transformed into a monster.
“What... what the hell are you?” he gasped, his voice nasal and distorted through his broken nose.
Ashlynn didn’t answer. She stood in her low tactical stance, her breathing controlled, her weight balanced evenly over her center of gravity. The silk wedding dress, designed to look fragile and ethereal, now restricted her movement slightly around the thighs, so with a sharp, calculated motion, she reached down, grabbed the satin hem, and ripped a clean, vertical slit up the left side of the skirt to her hip, freeing her legs completely.
“You didn't check my background very thoroughly, did you, Gregory?” Ashlynn said, her voice eerily calm, contrasting sharply with the chaotic panic leaking from her husband.
“You... you’re an auditor... you worked for Sterling Financial...” Gregory stammered, stumbling against the edge of the king-sized bed as he tried to back away from her.
“Sterling Financial was my day job for the last three years,” Ashlynn stepped forward, closing the distance with terrifying, predatory grace. “Before that, Sergeant Ashlynn Reed spent four years at Camp Lejeune training infantrymen and military police how to neutralize threats exactly like you. You thought you married a delicate corporate trophy, Gregory. You accidentally unlocked a cage.”
Panic finally overrode shock. Gregory’s hand dropped from his bleeding face, and he lunged wildly toward the bedside table, where a heavy crystal water decanter sat next to their wedding favors. His fingers grazed the glass, but before his grip could secure it, Ashlynn’s boot struck the edge of the table with enough force to splinter the mahogany leg.
The table collapsed, sending the crystal decanter crashing to the floor in a shower of shards and water.
Gregory shrieked as he hit the carpet, scrambling backward on his hands and knees like a crab trying to escape a predator. “Stay away from me! I’ll ruin you! Do you know who my father is? He owns half the real estate development contracts in Chicago! You’ll never work another day in your life! You’ll be ruined!”
Ashlynn stood over him, looking down not with anger, but with profound, chilling disgust.
“Your father is welcome to try,” she said quietly. She reached down, picked up the aluminum baseball bat by its grip, and weighed it in her hand. The balance was terrible—too light at the top, poorly weighted for actual combat—but it made a point.
She tapped the end of the bat lightly against her palm. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Please,” Gregory whimpered, pressing his back flat against the bedroom wall, his designer tuxedo jacket ruined, his face smeared with blood. “I was just... it was a joke! My dad said—it was a family tradition—!”
“Traditions are hard to break,” Ashlynn interrupted, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “So let's start a new one.”
She didn't hit him with the bat. Instead, she tossed it carelessly over his shoulder, where it clattered into the bathroom doorway. Then, she grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined tuxedo jacket, hauled him effortlessly to his feet as if he weighed nothing, and marched him straight toward the heavy cabin door.
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“W-where are you taking me?” Gregory panicked, struggling feebly against her iron grip.
“To the purser’s office,” Ashlynn said, her eyes fixed forward. “And then, to the maritime security holding cell. Because unlike you, Gregory, I actually know how the law works out in international waters. Attempted assault, domestic intimidation, and unlawful confinement are federal felonies. Let's see how your father’s real estate contracts hold up against the U.S. Coast Guard.”
